The Little Prince
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: Berwald Oxenstierna, a hermit in the Swedish wilderness, makes a wish one December evening. He's certainly not expecting anything to come out of it, and he's certainly not prepared for a young St. Nicholas to come crashing out of the sky. Sufin.


Den Lilla Prins

Berwald Oxenstierna, a hermit in the Swedish wilderness, makes a wish one December evening. He's certainly not expecting anything to come out of it, and he's certainly not prepared for a young St. Nicholas to come crashing out of the sky. Sufin.

~(*o0o*)~

* * *

Hello, everyone! My friends finally convinced me to watch Hetalia, which shortly led to mine becoming a shut-in for a couple weeks. *Goes red* Come for the history, stay for the epic. I grew particularly fond of Sweden and sweet little Finland, so I thought I might write them a story. ^_^ Realize it's a bit strange to have a Christmas fiction in the middle of May, but bygones.

Sorry for long and dull intro—please let me know if I should continue! Enjoy!

~(*o0o*)~

He throws another log on the dying embers; it is getting difficult to see. Sparks immediately begin to crackle loudly from underneath the new timber, as if exclaiming in protest. A shower of golden sparks dreamily shoot upwards, and soon the flames are greedily caressing their new fuel, flickering and popping softly.

The man at his large oak desk is grateful for the noise; it helps keep out the sound of his nefarious clock's perpetual _tick-tick-ticking_ sound. The Swede knew that his editor had meant well with the gift, but he'd never had a use for such things. Clocks were always on edge, on hour, every hour, unable to let so much as a single second go by uncounted. It made him feel fretful and ill at ease. The clock was an unwelcome, judgmental presence, and if it were not a gift—the first he'd received in years, as a matter of fact—he'd have thrown it out into the snow banks long ago.

If he wanted to tell time, he could simply go outside and look at the sky. But when allowed to pass peacefully unmarked, time could race on as was its wont, and Berwald could be at peace in his ignorance. If a few weeks felt like a few days, so much the better. He wishes his editor, Mr. Denmark, understood this, the reason he had chosen to live in a neglected logger's cottage in the depths of the Swedish woods. He wonders if Abelard is aware of this, and is trying to vex him in some new way. If it wasn't for his refusal to use a computer, it was for choosing to move out here in "East Jesus Nowhere," or never once going on a book tour. If he wasn't positive Mr. Denmark would hunt him down and kill him, he'd have switched editors long ago.

But there isn't much the tyrannical man's small mind can process, and Berwald doubts the man is intentionally rubbing mud in his face. Just a cruel mistake. With a sigh, Berwald lowers his pen and flexes his aching fingertips, letting out a soft grunt of approval. He'd gotten a fair amount of work finished this evening, and the manuscript he was working on was very nearly finished. He'd make the trek into town once he had the final draft, and mail it to Abelard three weeks before his deadline, as a reciprocal Christmas present.

Maybe he wouldn't feel quite so guilty about taking his axe to the wretched clock on the wall, then.

Berwald absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair, frowning slightly as he adjusted his glasses. He really didn't feel like continuing the last chapter tonight; the author knew himself well enough that he could tell when he'd reached his max. But though it was growing steadily darker outside the windows, he didn't feel tired enough to retire for the night. Uncertain what to do with himself, the man slowly stood up, stretched, and wearily considered his bookshelf, fingertip brushing over the worn but greatly-cared for volumes. He'd read _that _one over a dozen times, and he was fairly certain he could recite that other one from memory. And there was the one that so invariably precious he dared not pick it up except on his very worst days; he left that one alone. Not in the mood to read, he shuffled away, throwing another log into the fireplace as he did so. The crackling picked up once again, but it was steadily drowned out by the snowy blasts of wind coming from outside. Berwald curiously peered out the window, where snow was tumbling down like a sheet, fat and sweet flakes glowing in the moonlight.

Another storm was coming. A big one.

Berwald contemplated his old radio, which was dusty from underuse. He halfheartedly turned the dial, listening to the soft roar of static entering his home. The signals must have been particularly bad because of the weather—he could only make out brief snippets of conversation. Most of them were holiday commercials urging consumers to buy, buy, buy.

Of course. Berwald checked the calendar. December 1st. Well. He was certainly very glad that he had another project to pull him through the holidays, elsewise….well, the alternative was unbearable, and Berwald could not stand to think of it. Getting slightly fretful in spite of himself, he turned the dial until he came to a station where children were singing Christmas carols. They had poor voices, but Berwald remained huddled over the old radio, feeling strangely inclined to listen anyway. Their tones were cheerful and bright with good cheer. A dull throbbing settled in his throat, but it wasn't altogether a bad feeling.

Until their clumsy voices picked up on something _too _familiar…..

_Natten går tunga fjät  
rund gård och stuva;  
kring jord, som sol förlät,  
skuggorna ruva.  
Då i vårt mörka hus,  
stiger med tända ljus,  
Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia._

His fingers could not move quickly enough; they fumbled in his haste, and Berwald accidentally untwisted the dial. Grunting in annoyance, he screwed it back on, and quickly turned it off, with a barely audible sigh of relief.

Berwald glanced out the window again; it was getting harder and harder to see with the blanket of frost coating the glass. Perhaps he ought to chop some wood in case the storm kept him inside for a day or two….but a quick glance at the enormous piles beside his stony hearth convinced him otherwise. He already had more than enough for the next two days and then some, and Berwald disliked taking more than he absolutely needed. Eyes downcast, the man then slowly moved to his kitchen, automatically going to the top cupboard. He didn't feel like doing any carving tonight—he was tired, but still not tired enough to sleep. Perhaps a drop of tonic would help him some.

The man poured a small amount of gin into a clay mug, gulped that, and then poured himself a more generous amount, and gulped that too. Feeling considerably warmer, he moved to the front door and automatically reached for his fur-lined boots and overcoat.

But not before doubling back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of spirits. He hoped to not have to use them, though he inwardly sensed that tonight would be a long one.

One of many.

The bird inside the little clock came out as Berwald exited his home, and cuckooed. Its chime sounded very loud—the little cracks and pops from the fire had long since died out.

~(*o0o*)~

Gemini, the twin brothers Castor and Polux. Cygnus, the boy who was turned into the swan by his sympathetic father, Neptune. Orion, the warrior who fought a king for his love.

Berwald peered upwards at the heavens through his spectacles, not bothering to blink as the snowflakes whipped and whirled around him. The stars were somehow so clear on such a blustery night. He remained perfectly still in the snowy bank, breath coming out in slight puffs in the frosty air. He shivered, but not from cold.

A dash of light caught his attention, and he turned his severe-looking gaze upon it. Then, another twinkle. And another. And another.

Ah. A meteor shower. The stars softly glowed as they raced across the sky, lovely and serene in their fate. Or at the very least, they were silent. No one knows if a star is happy to plummet, or if it is secretly screaming bloody murder all the way down. Berwald grunts, if only to make a sound.

That damn song was still in his head, and he took a swig of the amber-colored tonic in the tumbler, wishing ardently that it would go away. Even silence beat the sound of that terrible carol, sung by children's voices, sung by a parade of people, sung by a sweet-faced angel with a crown of light….

Berwald forced his hand away from the bottle, and admired the group of falling stars for a moment or so.

A red star twinkled somewhere in the distance, not too far away. Inhibition weakened by alcohol, the man took a few robotic steps forward, staring at it as it slowly glided across the star-strewn heavens. That was yet another perk of his self-imposed isolationism. The city smog ate up stars while here, there were thousands upon thousands he could feast his eyes on, find familiar faces in. There was Pegasus, and there was Andromeda…..

And there was that lovely red star again. Was it even a star at all? It didn't look like a satellite, though the Swede expected that that was what it was. Melancholy, he rocked back and forth on his heels, still staring at it as stars tumbled about it.

"Pl'se," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself. "J'st s'me comp'ny would be n'ce."

Immediately afterward, he felt ashamed, and Berwald very nearly turned around and strode back to his cabin and hid under the bed where he would never have been heard from again. But something else in the sky caught his attention as the red star slowly cruised on in the night.

A drop of gold—so small, it could have been a pearl—tumbled away from the red star, and was hurtling down to Earth, to the sea of woods surrounding Berwald's house.

And it was falling fast.

~(*o0o*)~

Hopefully, it wouldn't snow like this on Christmas Eve. Tino had to hold on tightly to his white beret to keep the wind from seizing it off his head, and kept one gloved hand wrapped tightly around the reins, though it kept trembling. He'd peered down at the wet wild darkness below, and his shivering increased, glad that he was going home soon.

It was always so nice to visit the little Swedish hamlets glowing softly below, full of children whom were already counting the days till Christmas, till he came to visit. Tino never got to stay long enough to see the little ones actually unwrapping their gifts—his job required him to move much too quickly for that—but the squeals he heard every year lifted his spirits and made him realize just how worth his exhausting job was.

Tino uneasily eyed the darkness below him and gulped anxiously. He tugged on the reins, urging his reindeer to move just a little bit faster. He didn't particularly like being alone above the great oceans or the wilderness, regardless of how many times he made his flight. The great many trees looked like a great, open mouth, big and black and hungry. Ready to become a monster, pluck the tiny Tino from the sky, and swallow him as if he were but a drop of water. Tino covered his light brown eyes with his hands and inwardly whimpered; imagine if the children discovered that Santa was an enormous coward!

Swallowing, Tino flicked the reins, and the reindeer picked up speed. The snow was falling thicker and faster into his eyes, and it was getting harder to see. Figuring that the best solution was to get out of the storm as quickly as possible, the boy flicked the reins again, and the reindeer began to accelerate their speed.

He certainly didn't want to be stuck in this wasteland while a blizzard hit, when there was so much to do back home in Finland as it was! The very idea of the sheer masses of packages and bundles that would have to fit into his infinite pack made the boy weak at the knees, but it was awfully creepy out here scouting the houses by himself, and he was keen to be back in his workshop. Blinking snow out of his eyes, Tino frowned determinedly. Darn it, he wasn't going to let a little flurry stop him! He'd seen much worse, and the children were waiting for him. He had work to do.

He flicked the reins again, and the young boy held on anxiously to the rim of the sleigh as the speed picked up, honey-colored hair flapping wildly in the icy breeze. He hoped that they would be home soon, though they were going a bit too fast for his liking.

A small glimmer of light hiding in the midst of the great and intimidating trees caught Tino's attention. Curiously, the young man peered down at the glow coming from a tiny little house quite literally in the middle of nowhere. What was that? A radio station? Who would live in the middle of nowhere?

Tino leaned over his sleigh and tried to get a closer look. He didn't remember seeing this little house in any of his practice flights—he dearly hoped he hadn't missed some poor, good little child for many a year. Anxious again, Tino leaned just a little bit more over his sleigh, and tried to pull the reins in. But he accidentally pulled too quickly and the reindeer thought he'd been signaling them to move faster. They zoomed forwards, and the startled young man soon lost hold of the reins. He fumbled blindly as the snow continued to fall in his eyelashes, unable to find them.

The reindeer swerved, and, without warning, Tino found the seat underneath him disappear completely as the reindeer continued to travel high into the heavens. But now Tino was falling towards the ground in what most certainly had to be a death-spiral from goodness knows how many miles up. Eyes blank from disbelief, Tino tumbled down, down, down into the wilderness, which was reaching for him faster and faster, pulling him into starving, laughing darkness.

Sheer terror constricted his scream. The only thing he could think about, as the great trees came closer and closer, was:

_"What will the children do this year when I don't come….?"_

~(*o0o*)~

A broken off bit of star. Or metal. How interesting. Berwald frowned as the little item that had fallen from the red star tumbled to Earth. He felt slightly uneasy as its proximity, and wondered briefly if he ought to run inside the house. But while it seemed to be close, it did not seem to be heading for him.

As it fell, the moon illuminated the falling debris, and Berwald found himself peering curiously at the figure as it fell closer and closer to Earth.

What he saw made his insides contort with dread, and the liquor bottle fell from his unsteady hand into the snow, where it sank several inches, quickly buried.

_Oh, **shit.** _

That could not be what he thought it was. While his footing was still somewhat unsteady, it took a great deal to get the man drunk, and unless Denmark's claims were verified, he had not gone insane. A person. A person was falling straight into a grove of trees, limbs flailing helplessly.

Without a parachute. At least, not that he could see. Straight where he knew damn well where the river was.

The figure disappeared before his sight and was lost to him—he heard a loud SPLASH, and then, nothing.

Berwald took off running through the heavy layers of snow, bellowing wildly as he did so, shaking with panic. Oh, God. Oh, good God, if they'd even managed to survive the fall, that was a miracle in and of itself, but….

The water…..

~(*o0o*)~

He could see enough that he was heading towards a body of water. If he'd had more than a few split seconds, he could have wept from joy. The water wasn't even fully frozen yet. Not entirely anyway. If it were deep enough, he just might actually survive this night yet.

Then, he'd plunged into its watery depths, and was immediately convinced that he'd found his grave.

Pain, colossal pain shot through his body like a wildfire, and every atom of his skin ached as though needles had shot through them. He writhed helplessly, the cold so immense that it took his breath away—it disappeared in a rush of silver bubbles as he continued to tumble down….

It hurt. It hurt so badly he could scream, but he was motionless, frozen everywhere. If his blood had turned blue in his veins, he wouldn't have been surprised, but there was nothing on the poor Finn's mind other than the agony. His heart was racing so fast in his thin chest that it was a nascent humming, until it began to slow.

Something wrapped around him and tugged at him; the current of the river, maybe? It dragged him purposefully in some unknown direction, and the boy's eyes flickered shut. Everything disappeared, and he no longer felt anything, even the cold.

~(*o0o*)~

Berwald had thrown off his jacket and dived in—it had been incredibly painful, but it had be twice times for the poor little thing who had most definitely fallen in. He'd managed to seize hold of the figure's hair and hauled him back up to the surface, gasping wildly as spots loomed in and out of his eyes while he dragged himself to the bank with his prize. The Swede threw the body down against the snow and panicked at the deathly white hue of the youth's skin, while his was red with cold…

He was so young, so small, so slight. Like The Little Prince. Berwald moved his shaking fingers to the boy's cheek, but he couldn't feel any warmth in his gloved, shivering fingers. The big man bent over the small chest and listened intently.

…..yes. That was the throb of a heartbeat. And to sweeten the deal, a ragged gasp. And another. The boy was still alive.

Berwald took the boy by the shoulders and anxiously shook him hard. A darkened eyelid opened and Berwald found a dazed hazelnut eye consider him before it rolled back into his head. The boy curled up into a ball, shivering wildly all the while, whimpering like a suffering child in a cold cradle. The Swede stared at him for a fraction of a second before scooping him up into his arms, removing his own coat and wrapping it around the boy's shoulders before he turned around and raced for his house, heart pounding.

~(*o0o*)~

Well, either he'd died or this was definite insanity. Or a very bad and long dream he was certainly taking his sweet time in waking up from.

He remembered his lungs burning with cold and for want of air, and suddenly sweet air had come rushing in, though his lungs felt swollen and inflamed and he very nearly passed out. He wheezed. The world spun wildly, and his head throbbed something terribly.

He was lying against the snow, his skin now a numb layer of blubber as someone chattered above him in a language he could not understand. Someone started moving him, and Tino wished they would not; his insides were killing him, and he longed to sleep. After persistence, Tino finally flipped over so that he could push the annoyance away. _Let me sleep. I'm tired._

Tino had found himself staring up into the intense eyes of a great bear. It was on its hind legs, which Tino vaguely knew meant that the bear was very angry. He would have been sick with fear, if he had not been so cold. Or warm. He could not tell which, now.

Red and black continuously painted over his vision, and he groaned, feeling sick as the bear continued to stare at him with cobalt eyes.

Was he still seeing stars, or _was the bear wearing glasses_?

The bear looked at him as he writhed on the snow, and the snow disappeared from underneath him as the bear scooped him up into his arms. Tino was abruptly struck by the sheer _intelligence _in the creature's eyes, and his shivering picked up, goosebumps dotting his bruised flesh.

Something warm and heavy was draped around him, and Tino shuddered as the bear began to lurch through the snow, wind still whistling around them both. It sounded so strange to him now, like a distant echo.

He hiccupped and felt the bear's chest rumble beneath him as soft baritone growls broke through the air. It all sounded like gibberish.

Was the bear going to eat him?

If so, Tino marveled at his bravery; he felt no fear. It was warm, and while he hurt, the bear did not particularly frighten him. On the contrary, the bear was awfully comforting. Far from caring what happened next, Tino buried his face in the bear's shoulder and heard it let out a startled snuffling sound before toppling into darkness once again.

~(*o0o*)~

Did he call for a medic? Berwald didn't use the telephone much at all, but he was fairly certain that he'd never be able to get a signal through in this weather. And in any case, the only way medics would be able to get to them was by helicopter, which was far too dangerous in these kinds of winds. No. His priority right now was getting the boy warm.

Coughing, he clutched the stranger close to his breast as he navigated his way through the snow drifts, which were steadily growing in size. The already raging wind picked up and the soaked man soon found himself grappling with it, sliding several times. But he was careful that the boy should not have any more contact with the snow, and when he stumbled, the lad wound up on top of him.

Swearing softly to himself, the Swede finally made it to his front door, and awkwardly wrestled it shut before tugging down the latch. Snow continued to sullenly blow through the cracks as Berwald rushed to the fireplace, carefully lowering the motionless boy before it. He quickly started up a roaring blaze, than hurried to a nearby shelf to grab some woolen blankets.

The boy was still deathly white, and his breath was coming out in little gasps. Worried, Berwald began to rub him dry, trying to get the blood moving properly in his veins again.

Had to get him warm, had to get him dry, had to take off those….oh.

Biting the inside of his mouth and telling himself not to be silly, Berwald unbuttoned the boy's fine red cloak (it was so red it hurt his eyes) and peeled off the dripping woolen sweater and light blue shirt clinging persistently to his skin.

He couldn't help but glance down at the boy's slender frame, and admired it for a fraction of a second. Then sanity struck him over the head, and he hastily wrapped a furry blanket around the boy. It would have been a perfectly reasonably-sized blanket for Berwald, but it seemed to be devouring the boy.

Keen to get it over with, Berwald reached into the blanket, and blushed as he felt around for the boy's waistband. While he was fairly certain that the boy couldn't hear him, he felt the need to justify himself.

"S'rry," he mumbled awkwardly, tips of his ears burning. "H've to."

With one fluid motion, he pulled down the boy's pants and boxers, and threw the wet scraps away, still blushing furiously.

After awhile, the boy's temperature went up, and shortly afterwards, skyrocketed. The boy tossed and turned with fever, and Berwald continued to fan the flames, still sending uncertain glances at the boy's direction ever so often. He'd wrapped him in three blankets, and dressed him in a pair of Berwald's pajamas, which had to be wrapped around him two or three times before they stopped sliding off his body. The boy had two pairs of woolen socks on, but he still shook with cold, whimpering softly.

Berwald thought carefully as he lifted the kettle from above the flames, and filled a hot water bottle. The boy was going to be sick—he already _was_ sick. Berwald had been in that water for a few seconds, whereas the strange boy had been submerged for nearly three minutes. It was a miracle he wasn't already dead.

The writer wrapped the hot water bottle in a bit of fabric, and tucked it next to the boy's side. He looked at the young man, and as tentatively as if approaching a wounded animal, Berwald's pale fingertips slipped through the boy's hair. With the fire reflecting off it, it looked remarkably like candlelight.

Just where had the boy come from? He could not have fallen from a plane; he surely would have perished if he were at very high altitudes, water or no water. Berwald ran a thumb over the boy's cheek, and rubbed it softly. Some color was returning back to the boy's face, which was a good thing.

His eyes wandered over to his bookshelf, where one of his most treasured possessions lay, and thought of the page he'd liked so much that the words were embroidered in gold in his mind, like music:

_"He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand."_

Berwald almost smiled. Well, snow might be a better term. He glanced back down at the boy again, and was struck with the strange urge to comfort him. But he had no idea how to go about doing it, so he simply patted the boy's elbow instead, feeling stupid. The boy shifted in his blankets and let out a soft noise. Berwald immediately withdrew his hand as if he'd been burned, and stared down at the boy again.

"D'nt w'rry," he said, voice hoarse from underuse. "Y'll be s'fe now."

Still feeling like a large and foolish child, he carefully scooped up the boy in his wrappings, and glanced around the room. The boy would sleep on his bed—Berwald was fine sleeping at his desk. He'd done it before.

As he lowered the boy down and tucked the patchwork blanket over him, it occurred to Berwald that someone should really watch the boy tonight. The physical trauma of the fall and the hypothermia could result in the boy's immune system dropping so badly that he became susceptible to pneumonia. Or he could even have a heart attack. Someone had to keep the blood running in his veins, and be able to radio in for help if worst came to worst. And it wouldn't hurt to give the stranger another source of heat. __

Sighing, Berwald kicked off his boots and lay beside the feverish boy, who was still murmuring in his sleep. After awhile, the young man's breathing became steadier, and Berwald's eyelids became heavier.

The firelight made the stranger look strangely translucent. _Lovely_.


End file.
